


memento

by leov66



Series: facilis descensus averno [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mentions of Blood, mentions of injury, no happy ending, the rating is somewhere between t and m but i wasnt sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leov66/pseuds/leov66
Summary: [memento (latin):(initial capital letter, italics) Roman Catholic Church. either of two prayers in the canon of the Mass, one for persons living and the other for persons dead.





	1. memento mori

**Author's Note:**

> heres my tumblr [@euphra-sie](https://euphra-sie.tumblr.com)
> 
> the final two-shot in the shadowhunters/tmi au. sending all the love to everyone whos left a comment, kudo or helped me develop the plot in any way; **youre the reason i keep writing.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 1! combeferre's pov

’Silence before the storm’ has always sounded like an utterly dumb expression. Anyone could think rationally and see a storm coming, there are rumbles, there’s the unmistakeable smell of rain in the air; no, there’s no way you wouldn’t know it’s on its way.

 

Perhaps he’s always been wrong, because nothing could have prepared him for this, nothing could’ve told him _that’s what’s gonna happen_.

 

”I can’t do it anymore,” Enjolras says, studying the all-too-familiar walls of his _parabatai_ ’s room. ”I’m leaving, I’m marrying him.”

 

It’s like a punch in the gut, except Combeferre has been punched in the gut numerous times before and he _knows_ how to deal with that. It’s worse than that, because it’s a beginning of an end that was never to come, and it makes him want to scream and punch something and cry but he doesn’t say anything.

 

”We could stay like this forever, pretending, but…he doesn’t deserve this.”

 

For a while, he’s silent, trying to think of _something_ to say.

 

”I see you’ve made your choice.”

 

”I have.”

 

Had he not known him so good, he would’ve tried to talk him out of it. Tried to remind him of the angel blood in their veins, the marks of black and gold upon their skin, but their souls have been bound together and Combeferre knows Enjolras’ heart better than his own. 

 

He remembers a different conversation, though, more than a year ago. 

 

_”Why can’t you just make him Ascend?”, Combeferre asks._

 

_Enjolras shakes his head. ”He’s an artist, not a killer. I’d never do that to him.”_

 

_”Don’t you understand the consequences? You could die, Enjolras, and if you lived, you’d have to cut ties with everyone. Would this be worth it?”_

 

_”For him? Yes.”_

 

 _”What about me, about_ us _?”_

 

_There’s no reprimand in his tone, only disbelief and hurt and he can see something inside Enjolras break._

 

_They don’t talk about it again._

 

Seems like the time has come. Twenty-six years of fighting and screaming and pain have imprinted themselves on his _parabatai_ ’s face, and the fatigue’s no longer something to be proud of, instead it’s like an old scar, not fully healed, never tended to. They’re each others’ almost perfect mirrors in that instance. 

 

 _Brothers in all but blood_ , the flames whispered what feels like a lifetime ago, yet here they are, as if instead of runes there were suddenly matching clocks on their chests.

 

It was inevitable yet unpredictable, in the way that you see something and it’s just something you accept, but after years, everything ticks into place and you _know._ They’re only human, and the angels have fashioned them for love. That’s their great glory and their great tragedy. For if love could be compared to a flame, Enjolras’ would be a raging fire, bright as the sun and just as deadly.

 

There’s nothing he could possibly say, because there is nothing to be said anymore. Their story - _Jonathan and David come again_ , some whispered - comes to an end right in front of Combeferre’s eyes. It leaves a dull ache in his chest, one he knows will stay there forever. No peace is possible to him like there is no armistice for a man who buries his friend.

 

It’s all too much for him, to watch Enjolras go. He wishes he could bring himself to hate him, to hate Grantaire, but he’s too good for that, he’s always been bad at holding grudges. To resent his _parabatai_ , though, was to loathe himself, and he wasn’t ready for that. 

 

They both know what’s going to happen. Enjolras is going to come to Javert, tell him he wishes to leave to marry a Mundane. Then he’ll be stripped off of his marks and, after swearing to sever contact with any and all Shadowhunters he’s ever known, he will be dead to Clave.

 

The Institute feels colder than ever, not even a faction of the _home_ it used to be. It all went to shit after Fantine died. Without her, no one cares about it like they would about a house. The youngest children walk in silence, afraid and timid, while the older spend their whole days either out or practicing, only meeting Javert in the dining room (8 am, 4 pm and 8pm respectively, and not a single minute later, or else you’re gonna _regret it_ ). Of course, Enjolras doesn’t give a shit about the rule, and probably hasn’t eaten a single meal at the Institute in over two years. Javert tried, at first, to discipline him about it by increasing practice times, but after watching Enjolras throw eight knives right into the bullseye, _with his eyes closed_ , and put a sword to his training partner’s neck in ten seconds, he gave in and settled for annoying reminders and attempts at figuring his weaknesses out. 

 

It’s a shame, though, that he would find them in a moment like that. Combeferre doesn’t hear the exchange, doesn’t wish he could hear it, either. 

 

***

 

No one in the Instutite sleeps that night, Enjolras’ agonizing screams piercing the darkness and silence of the building. They have the children stay up and recite passages from the Bible. 

 

 _That is what happens when you disobey_ , they’re all told. They don’t understand, only repeat sentence after sentence, their voices turning into a mindless symphony against those unforgiving walls. Combeferre loses count of the times he empties his stomach. Everything hurts and burns and he just wants it to _stop_ but it doesn’t stop and he can’t move and he’s sure he’s screaming and he can’t even begin to think about what Enjolras is feeling because _he_ ’s on the floor, sobbing and calling out for anyone, _please_ , just make it stop-

 

he can pinpoint the exact moment their bond is broken. His heart twists and shrinks and _shatters_ into a billion pieces he knows he won’t ever put together. How dare they do this to his brother, his soulmate, his _parabatai_ , and call themselves law, justice and order? He’s disgusted and sick of this, of them.

 

Minutes stretch into hours, time feels like an unknown concept. All he can feel is pain, worse than anything he’s ever known. 

 

And so, he realizes, he will live, until the last day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every single ref:
> 
> 1) _the paraphrase of "we’re only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. that’s our great glory and our great tragedy."_ , its from the song of ice and fire by george r. r. martin
> 
> 2) _Jonathan and David_ , the original parabatai in the tmi series
> 
> 3) _no peace is possible..._ , paraphrase of "for himself he had a feeling that no peace was possible to him henceforth, any more than there can an armistice for a mother bereaved of a son or for a man who buries his friend" from albert camus' _plague_.


	2. memento vivere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2! once again, **thank you.**

There’s a side to the story that Combeferre will never know, and it’s the hours of doubt and regret. It’s the times Enjolras spent considering all possibilities, the Codex he’s memorised as a child wide open in front of him. Would he risk Grantaire’s life for keeping what he’s used to? Would he consider introducing him fully to the Institute, the _Clave_? Would he allow that Ascension to happen, would he let those gentle lips touch the rough edges of the Mortal Cup?

 

The pain upon making a decision - maybe not the right one, he will never truly know- is Enjolras’ and Enjolras’ only, no one else is there when he’s torn apart, choosing to break one life or another, a soulmate, his _parabatai_ , the one who knows him better than anybody ever will, or the love of his life, the key to his heart, the one who soothes him, who pulls him together and loves him like he’s everything. 

 

Either way, he breaks, too.

 

Church bells ring across his memory as he loses himself in time gone by, the bitter taste of bile and the sour taste of blood. Patience is a virtue, obedience is a duty, and he’s learnt both the hard way. He’s burnt by fires colder than ice that lick at his very soul, stripping him bare of his most cherished thoughts and moments, laying him bare against the cold altar.

 

The hours he used to spend in front of the very same shrine, cursing God, asking for anything, any answer to his questions, only to face the silence. There’s nothing to his cry in the darkness but the growing disgust inside his very heart. 

 

He prays for hours, now, no longer asking for anything, perhaps because he’s long since lost the ability to ask; either he begs or takes, nothing in between. Time has hardened him, only to shatter him at the ultimate test of faith that would be the last one. 

 

It’s the exhaustion that’s killing him, the weariness in his bones, a low but endless hum inside his body. Oh, how he wishes everything would stop _,_ how he wishes he felt nothing, but there’s no such thing as wishes anymore, he knows that. 

 

The time has come to finally choose what he values most. _Choose, choose, choose_ , the golden rosary in his hand whispers in a sickly sweet voice, and the soaring saints and angels join in with their divine songs of glory and death.

 

And yet to say the one choice is life and the other is death would be wrong. There’s loss on both sides, and there are things he could never live without on both sides.

 

 _Ignis aurum probat,_ he’s been taught, _fire tests gold_. He’s been golden all his life, the angels’ flaming sword, proud and unwavering. An orphan, without a future, angry and ready to fight, he was heavens’ glorious blade, and he embraced that role with no hesitation. With a sense of purpose and a _parabatai_ at his side, he felt invincible, almost godlike, blasphemous as that might sound.

 

 _Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas_ , out of the seven deadly sins pride has always been his Achilles’ heel. 

 

“ _But now my eyes have seen you,_ ” he whispers, “ _therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes._ ” The truth makes him tremble, but he’s a man kneeling already, as he’s always been.

 

Meeting Grantaire had been the turning point in his life, the realisation that perhaps he is more than just a perfect weapon, perhaps he can allow himself to be human at last.

 

Grantaire compared him to an angel the night that first night, teasingly, unaware of what will come next. First, they loved each other in the darkness, like two blind men only trying to grasp what’s in front of them. Those rough touches split him open and tore his walls down. Then came the understanding, the compassion, the calm love. Years went by, and the light broke through, illuminating their love, finally making it kind.

 

And here he is, in the very same place he used to be, be and _stand_ and _demand_ , but today he’s only kneeling, only begging. 

 

Choose, choose, choose, the church tells him, as if the choice was obvious when it’s anything but that.

 

***

“You’re happy to see me leave, aren’t you,” he says to Javert, knowing the truth all too well. “You dont mind this, punishing me because I’m no longer your fucking toy.”

 

There’s no need for an answer. 

***

It’s hell and more, it’s like dying but no one lets him die, it’s having everything he ever was stripped away from him. The pain is like nothing he’s ever known, tearing him up and setting him on fire. He’d beg for this to just stop, but his voice has long since given up on him, _just like the rest of this godforsaken world._ He chokes on his own blood and sobs and the hand never hesitates, one Mark after another, every single one, until he’s nothing.

***

They don’t let him take anything, but he doesn’t have anything left, anyway. The darknes wraps herself around him in mock comfort when he wanders through the streets to the only place, the only heart he has left.

 

“ _What have you done,_ ” Grantaire whispers to him, holding back a sob, before taking him in his arms, and finally, he’s allowed to crumble. 

***

 _It was the only way,_ he tells himself every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every single reference:
> 
> 1) _ignis aurum probat_ , a roman saying, _fire tests gold_ , basically strong characters are created by suffering
> 
> 2) _vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas_ , latin for _vanity of vanities, all (is) vanity_ : earthly life is ultimately empty, the ’vanitas’ motif is a known part of the barocco culture, both in paintings and literature
> 
> 3) _but now my eyes have seen you... _, quote from the book of job in the bible; when job demanded god show himself after all of his suffering and god did, he realized he's weak and unimportant in the scheme of the universe__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _4) _he is a man kneeling_ , the motif of the kneeling christian is popular in the bible and shows how little a human is worth against god_  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
>   
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _thanks for reading, i really appreciate it_  
>  _


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